


The Diabolical Demise of Mr Bun

by mouriana



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-11
Updated: 2017-12-11
Packaged: 2019-02-13 11:13:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12982836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mouriana/pseuds/mouriana
Summary: One of Rosie's stuffed animals has been murdered in the kitchen at 221B.  It's up to her, Sherlock, and John to solve the case.





	The Diabolical Demise of Mr Bun

Sherlock Holmes, the great detective, was sitting in his favourite chair in the front room of his flat at 221B. The glazed eyes and his hands pressed together in front of his face said that he was tucked far away in his mind palace where no man had hope of reaching him.

The five-year-old girl in front of him, however, knew what she was about.

She worked her sticky fingers between the base of his palms and, with herculean effort, pried his hands apart. The man blinked and looked at her for the first time.

“What is it, Watson?”

“Mr Bun has been murdered.” She showed no emotion but a tedious sigh.

The detective’s eyebrow lifted. “It’s a wonder any of your friends come to your tea parties anymore with all the poisonings.”

She mirrored the cocked brow and folded her arms across her chest. “He wasn’t poisoned, he was stabbed.”

He blinked, then stood. “Oh delightful, a twist in the pattern.”

Taking his hand in her sticky fingers, Rosie Watson pulled her godfather into the kitchen, where a smaller table had been set up where the microwave used to be, festooned with plastic tea things and items from a child’s science set. It was a pinker, more petroleum-based version of the larger table in the room. A blue, stuffed rabbit was lying face down in front of the smaller table. There was strawberry jam everywhere.

Sherlock cleared his throat. “Mrs Hudson won’t be happy about another murder on her floor.” Normally he paid very little attention to the state of the flat, but the sugar bowl with his morning tea had been filled with salt after the Garroting of Aloysius Bear, so he was making some effort to be more aware of the stains left on the rug.

Young Watson was standing over the deceased, hands on hips, shaking her head, ignoring all comments about cleanliness. “His wife will be very upset.”

“Statistically speaking, she has a high chance of having murdered him herself.”

Rosie, her hands still on her hips, looked at her godfather like he was an idiot. “Not with a little one on the way. You see but you do not observe.”

Sherlock remembered the red-haired doll and the wedding ceremony he had been required to attend. “That would explain why her little lab coat has been tighter across the front.”

“Obviously.”

The detective cleared his throat again, then pulled his retractable magnifying lens from his pocket. “We are duty-bound to investigate, then, Watson.” 

The little girl squealed, went to one of the kitchen drawers, and removed a purple deerstalker studded with brightly coloured plastic gems only slightly dimmed by tiny fingerprints of dried glue. She stood before Sherlock expectantly until he sighed and bowed, allowing her to put the bedazzled hat upon his head. Then she pulled her own retractable lens from a pink, flowered bag that hung from her shoulder, and waited until, with proper dramatic flourish, Sherlock extended his own magnifying glass and began examining the crime scene. 

“He seems to have been stabbed with unusual passion,” said the detective as he noticed the jam on the wall higher than the refrigerator. “It was definitely a personal crime. Are you quite sure he wasn’t having an affair?”

His goddaughter sighed with impatient exasperation. “He is _completely_ in love with Miss Polly. He would _never_ cheat on her.”

Sherlock turned back to examining the jam, then snapped his magnifying class closed and turned to Rosie. “Miss Polly and Mr Bun were having a fight just last week. I remember it quite well.” Indeed, it had been difficult to concentrate on his treatise on the various properties of different paint formulations with Rosie carrying on in two different voices in the kitchen.

“That’s just because he was being rude, as usual. He apologised and they made up.”

Sherlock grunted and opened his magnifying lens again, muttering, “Is that why it became so quiet after the argument?”

“Of course. They _have_ to kiss when they make up.”

“No they don’t.”

Rosie was indignant. “Yes they do. Those are the rules.” 

Sherlock sighed. Rosie’s particular blend of precocious assessments chafed against her more developmentally appropriate naive assumptions. He was slowly learning to not argue with her about it. As often.

He turned his attention back to the case at hand, following the trail of jam to the salad drawer. While he was pulling on a latex glove so he could open the drawer, John walked into the kitchen.

“I was thinking we should get takeaway for—”

“Shh, daddy!” reprimanded Rosie, “We’re on a case!”

Properly chastised, John curled in his lips and rose up momentarily on his toes. “Oh, so sorry. Who’s the victim this time, if I may ask?”

“Mr Bun,” said Sherlock as he carefully lifted a sticky ice pick from the salad drawer. “And I believe I’ve found the murder weapon. But an ice pick, really? Who even uses ice picks these days?”

“You do, obviously,” muttered the Doctor. “There are at least four in the flat.” 

“That’s not what I meant, those are for research,” hissed Sherlock from the side of his mouth as he smiled at Rosie, who held out a little zip top ‘evidence bag’ for him to drop the ice pick into. 

Rosie put the evidence bag carefully on the table and withdrew a small UV flashlight from the pink shoulder bag. “I smell linseed oil,” she announced matter-of-factly.

“Really?” hissed John to Sherlock, “you told her about the Bruhl case?”

“Of course I did. Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because it involved the kidnapping and poisoning of two children? You’re going to give my daughter nightmares!”

Sherlock grabbed the bag with the ice pick in it and held it up. John frowned. “Well, you’re going to give her ideas.”

Grunting, Sherlock put the bag back down just as Rosie, standing on her tiptoes, turned off the light and switched on the UV, revealing a glowing trail of round, fuzzy footprints leading into the sitting room and behind the Sherlock’s blocky leather chair. 

“There he is!” yelled Rosie dramatically. “Don’t let him escape, daddy!”

John flipped on the light and went over to the corner where he reached down and picked up a stuffed silvery fox, its back paws matted with linseed oil and its front paws sticky with strawberry jam. “Oh ho, Gawain, we caught you!” 

Sherlock cleared his throat. 

“No, daddy,” hissed Rosie, “His name is George.”

“What? Oh yeah, George. You might as well confess, George, we’ve caught you red-handed. Pawed. Just confess and the judge might go easy on you.”

Rosie rolled her eyes. “We don’t need him to confess, daddy. _Everybody_ knows why he killed Mr Bun.”

Her father and godfather looked at her expectantly, until she rolled her eyes again. “He’s been in love with Miss Polly for ages. It was jealousy. Obviously.”

Sherlock let out a tiny cough. “Obviously.” 

John sighed. “Well, glad that’s solved. Let’s clean up the crime scene and order takeaway.”

Rosie pouted and Sherlock was instantly engrossed with the contents of the book shelves. “You can’t just have a crime scene and not tidy it up after. It’s not proper.”

Rosie groaned and marched back into the kitchen while John handed the stuffed fox to Sherlock. “You taught her about the linseed oil, you get to clean up the linseed oil.”

Sherlock took the toy just as Rosie ran back into the sitting room, clutching the blue bunny to her chest. “It’s a miracle!” she yelled, “Mr Bun is alive! Miss Polly is going to be so happy!”

She skipped back into the kitchen, lecturing Mr Bun about how naughty it was to fake being dead.

John grunted. “I’m sure Miss Polly knew he was faking it the whole time.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed at his friend. “I don’t get it.”

John shook his head, smiling a crooked smile, as he went to clean up the jam.


End file.
